


End and means

by PervincaViola



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Drabble, M/M, slightly sexy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-24 06:42:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13208151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PervincaViola/pseuds/PervincaViola
Summary: Machiavelli still smiles with his ambiguous smile that this time is disarming, and says the last thing that Volpe would expect to hear. "I would have done the same."





	End and means

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everybody! These two are just adorable, I couldn't help but translate a fanfic of mine I have just published in Italian, and this is the result ^^ The story is set just after Volpe's attempt to kill Machiavelli.  
> I haven't translated for a pretty long time, so you may find some mistakes. I hope you'll enjoy this little fanfic anyway! Let me know!

If the city of Rome is the capital of the world, sunny and full of life, the catacombs that run through its bowels are at the same time the essence and the remains of a glorious past. There is no darker and more silent place, unknown to most – and this is the right place to let yourself slide against a wall and abandon yourself to solitude, Volpe thinks, and to reflect on how much a choice can turn out to be so deeply _wrong_.  
"I expected a better hiding place from Italy's most famous thief" are the first words that break the silence. If Volpe does not jump, it's only because he has gone thorugh too many winters to be taken by surprise, and he can hide everything under a mask of indifference. He raises his gaze, indolent, to meet gray eyes and a mocking smile - Machiavelli is _good_ and knows he is, as deadly as Ezio, as silent as his most expert thieves. He approaches without haste, his hands behind his back and the high leather boots that punctuate regular echoes in the dust, and Volpe looks at him and can only think _this is not a place for him_ \- if the slums have represented his cover for a lifetime, Palazzo della Signoria and the court of Rome witnessed the ascent of Machiavelli.  
"What are you doing here?" He asks, suspicious, and yet he already knows the answer.  
"Ezio advised me to keep an eye on you."  
" _Christ_ " Volpe curses, unable to contain himself, barely holding back the anger that makes his hands tremble - anger against Ezio, against Machiavelli and his seraphic expression, _against himself and his mistakes_.  
Machiavelli crosses his arms, scrutinizes him intensely - not with the disinterested air that he reserves for what he doesn't care about, but observing him with the lively attention consecrated only to what he considers most worthy - and there is an intrigued light in his light eyes and the right corner of his mouth is lifted in an almost amused fold.  
"Did you really think I was in the dark about everything?" He says, haughty, and his words are a low blow that goes directly to his stomach. Volpe curses himself a thousand and a thousand times, because he should have imagined it, because Machiavelli is always a step ahead of everyone, and he wouldn't stand where he is now, if he wasn't what he really is - an Assassin wearing a diplomatic mask, a man of letters plays both sides effortlessly.  
The only choice that remains is to be silent, and Volpe's breath becomes heavier. It was not a real question, just a rhetorical observation, and even if there were a right answer, he has no intention of looking for it. Shame forces him to lower his head, he doesn't retort caustic as he would have done _before_ : the truth is that he would kill Machiavelli without proof; if Ezio hadn't stopped him, he would have put a dagger in his back.  
Volpe clings to his worn hood, waiting for a scathing comment that _does not come_ ; then he raises his purple eyes on the man before him. "The end justifies the means," Machiabelli asserts, and Volpe shakes his head, look at him without understanding.  
Machiavelli still smiles with his ambiguous smile that this time is disarming, and says the last thing that Volpe would expect to hear. "In your place I would have done the same."

 

At their first meeting he had found him odious. With his half smiles, the rich and elaborate clothes and the perennially frowning expression, Niccolò Machiavelli was the emblem of that purely noble ruthlessness that had led to the corruption of Rome first and then of Florence. And his _arrogance_ ... Every discussion became a clash, every mocking look turned into a challenge.  
For this reason, Volpe tried to resist; because of this and because of the alcohol that circulates in his blood – and he almost killed him, _Christ_ , and he _knows_ and it seems that not even _this_ can touch him. Volpe has tried to resist, but in the end he's the one who clings to the shoulders of Machiavelli while he pushes him insolently towards the bed, in the Thieves Guild. And a single glass of wine can not have this effect - and Machiavelli appears to be everything but drunk.  
Judging by his smile, he seems to know how to read him inside, he seems to intimately enjoy the thoughts that are tangling his gut, but then there is again his mouth that clashes with his own, there are his unexpectedly gentle fingers underneath his hose and Volpe's head starts spinning.  
His tongue tastes like wine and spices while he playfully traces the outline of Volpe's lips, while Volpe opens his legs and squeezes him between his thighs, and manages to make him forget who is the older of them - and Volpe just can't hold back a comment on how much, after all, he's not good just at talking. He instinctively presses his turgid cock on the groin of the other, obtaining a delicious groan and making both shudder, and it is only the pressure of Machiavelli's lips that stifles his laughter in front of the unexpected blush that glimpses under his golden skin. Volpe almost regrets the half-light, he wish he had lit every candle in the room, just to impress every memory in his flesh, because hes has laid with many men, but this time is different in a way that even himself can not explain - it's like running on the rooftops of Florence and feel the support that suddenly lacks under the heels, and yet remain standing.  
Machiavelli's breath is a thrill on his lips, his fingers a flattery that touches his jaw, and if he had killed him he would have lost all this, and could never thank Ezio enough for stopping his hand. He did not know it, or maybe yes - he never looked for it, but perhaps he always wanted it.  
"Machiavelli, please," he says, finding himself moaning without shame, without thinking, every mockery burnt on his mouth. And then his flounder is interrupted by an amused whisper in his ear - "Niccolo", Machiavelli says, so close that Volpe can only guess the grin that is furrowing those lips, while every claim of cynicism and composure seems to have slipped away from him. "It's Niccolò, _Gilberto_ " he repeats, and if Gilberto were more lucid he would ask him for how long has he known his name, and instead he merely repeats his name - "Niccolo", so easy and harmonious and pleasant to pronounce – while he drowns in him and the night dies.

 

Later there is only red darkness. The sheets are wet with seed and sweat, the bed so small that his breath caresses Niccolò's bare shoulder.  
"I was about to kill you," he says in the stillness of the room, and it's the first time he confesses it aloud. Machiavelli hardly turns his head on the pillow, observing him thoughtfully, without speaking, and Volpe wonders, for a single moment, whether his gaze has always probed him so deeply, or whether it is an effect of the light on his face, or maybe mere suggestion.  
"You could have," he finally concedes, lifting just a corner of his mouth. "But you did not."  
"I was wrong to doubt your loyalty. It will not happen again".  
Niccolò raises an eyebrow, surprised, and does not hide a smile of ill-concealed satisfaction. "I shared a bed with _la Volpe_ and now I get his excuses, and all in one night. I'm a lucky man".  
Gilberto rolls his eyes, holds back a biting answer. "You are unbearable" he blows without conviction, and cancels the distance that separates them, lifts Niccolò's face - he reaches out and looks for his lips, his eyes, his cock.  
Niccolò laughs quietly on his mouth, he abandons himself against him without hesitation. "I see".


End file.
